


The Placebo Effect Doesn't Work Like That

by Irrelevancy



Category: Common Law
Genre: Gen, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Travis and Wes are messed up little boys, not actual non-con though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrelevancy/pseuds/Irrelevancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Travis and Wes are kidnapped by the head of a drug circle. Unorthodox detectives lead to unorthodox consequences. Torture, H/C, emotional trauma, Travis & Wes style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bluffin' (With My Muffin)

**Author's Note:**

> I figured, every cop show needs one, right?
> 
> Scenario inspired by Castle episode "Knockdown."

“I can’t believe you left the car on a _stakeout_.”

“ _You_ were the one bitching about coffee.”

“Yeah, that I’ll get some proper Italian roast when I get home–”

“Oh sorry if Starbucks isn’t good enough for you, your highness–”

“–not for you to jump ship and get us _kidnapped_!”

Tristan Wilkes fired his Uzi into the ceiling of the warehouse to shut the two detectives up. Despite the submachine gun a henchman had braced against the back of his neck, Wes still tilted his head back to follow the direction of the shots.

“You’re not gonna get away with this,” Travis hurriedly said before Wes could make some smartass comment about what the bullets would do to the ceiling and goddamn legal _building protocol_ or something. Wilkes rolled his eyes like he’d heard that before, and Travis cringed to admit, it wasn’t his finest work.

“ _You’re not gonna get away with this?_ Seriously?”

Well, at least Travis had successfully distracted Wes from the imminent doom of the ceiling, but the smartass comment towards _him_ was largely unnecessary, as Travis was trying really damn hard to save their lives, here.

“What, you have great wisdom to bestow upon us?” he snapped, and Wes got his offended face on, the one that, as Travis had told him many times before, made him look like a wet muppet, thus far less threatening than the situation required Wes to be. Not that Wes looked threatening at all at any point in their work history; he was mostly the douchey stick in the mud that someone couldn’t wait to step on, except when someone’s loafers even came close, Travis was ready to shoot them in the foot, and maybe step on Wes a little himself. All part of the job description.

“Anything I say would sound like great wisdom compared to your CSI clichés,” Wes shot back. “Why can’t you just act like a real cop for once?”

Stick in the mud was right. Before Travis could tell Wes exactly what he thought about Wes’s opinions and where he could shove them, the henchman behind him shook Travis by his collar, growling a garlic-y “Shut up,” which, under regular circumstances, would not impede Travis by the slightest, but considering the cold steel slowly warming against his spine, he was willing to bet his henchman and Wes’s were a matching pair, and _Travis_ wasn’t stupid enough to put itchy trigger fingers to the test.

But apparently, Tristan Wilkes had other ideas.

“No no, let them talk,” he said in his annoying British, sing-song voice. “They’re bound to slip up sometime, if they keep it up.”

That shut Travis up real fast, because if it was one thing he learned about the holier-than-thou type, it was that they were easier to deal with when you make them think they are smarter than you. Once their guards are down, that’s when you strike. Wes seemed to have a similar idea (how else could he possibly resist getting the last word?) and finally shut his trap.

“No? You boys done?” Wilkes was still smiling as he passed off the Uzi to another henchman standing behind him (they multiply like bunnies, or Travis-babies if he never used protection). He approached the chairs Travis and Wes were tied to with his arms actually folded behind his back; Wes made a face and Travis actually mini-barfed a bit, and Wilkes’s smirk got a bit more steely. “Well, I imagine you know how this works. You tell me how much the police knows, and I kill you quickly. You don’t tell me, I take my time, and believe me, I am quite good at taking my time.”

Travis and Wes traded looks, and both nodded in agreement.

“Do your worst,” Wes said, showing teeth. “We’ve got all night.”

//

“The thing I love about the cops’ buddy system,” Wilkes explained, “is that the partners all seem to like each other quite a bit.”

Wes scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I think you’ll find us to be a bit different.”

“And they’re always together, so kidnapping them barely takes any effort.” Wilkes continued like he hadn’t been interrupted, though the henchman in charge of Wes gave him a little shove. Wes tried to glare over his shoulder at the guy, but his grip on Wes’s collar was too tight; Wes counted it as a win anyways, because the stereotype would have _fried_ under his interrogation room-glare. Beside him, Travis sighed loudly through his nose and rolled his eyes, too.

“Yeah, we get it, two cops are better than one,” he drawled, determinedly ignoring the press of the gun behind him. “We’re still not going to tell you anything, you know that.”

“They obviously don’t,” Wes pointed out. “Why do you think we’re here, moron?”

“Okay, you know what, Mitchell?” Travis shifted to have a better line of sight of Wes, and Wes did the same thing as the guns were both shoved tighter against their heads. Wilkes was frowning, and his hands had shifted to his sides, tensing into half-fists. “You need to shut your big fat mouth before I shut if for you.”

“Oh yeah?” Wes taunted, leaning forward slightly. “What are you gonna do, stink me to death with your _breath_?”

“So we’re all on the same page, then,” Wilkes interrupted, still sing-song, but his voice tighter. “I have my way with one of you gentlemen while the other, in order to save his partner, breaks. And I pick...”

There was a still moment as Wilkes deliberated between the two chairs, and Wes evened out his breathing as Wilkes leaned down over him. He could see the muscles of Travis’s arm tensing out of his peripheral vision.

“I think that you, Detective Mitchell, would break faster than Detective Marks over there,” Wilkes said, and Wes snarled, “Kill him for all I care,” just as Travis shouted, “He’ll break faster than a Twinkie.”

“But,” Wilkes continued, a touch of amusement added to his smirk, and Wes knew they had slipped up. “I think I’ll enjoy shutting _you_ up better.”

Wes was ready for the fist aimed for his solar plexus, because the bad guys always seemed to start that way, didn’t they? But his smugness was short-lived, as the third henchman dragged into the warehouse a trough of ice water, and Wes was shoved to his feet and marched forward. As Wilkes kicked out his knees from under him and Wes’s face was suddenly close enough to feel the cold coming from the water, Wes caught onto a fleeting thought that maybe he was glad it wasn’t Travis by the water. It wasn’t because of mushy crap like that Wes didn’t want Travis to get hurt or anything, because their job description was to get hurt, and they wouldn’t get anywhere with that train of thought. It was just because Wes would handle this much better than Travis. Of course. He was a lawyer, for god’s sake, he was _used_ to pain (at least, pain of the migraine sort, but there couldn't be much difference, right?). And, admittedly, Wes didn’t really want to think about how much truth there was in Wilkes’s claim that Wes would’ve folded quickly, had it been Travis, but that was only because he cared much more about people than Travis Fuck-Them-and-Dump-Them Marks, and nothing like he didn’t want to watch Travis get hurt, or bullshit like that.

“Watch carefully, Marks,” Wilkes announced, grabbing hold of his henchman’s Uzi as the henchman took hold of Wes. “This is for you.”

Then all Wes felt was cold.

//

They held Wes under until his legs slowed in their thrashing, and when he was finally lifted up and allowed to breath, Travis sucked in breath like _he_ had been the one drowning. Nothing sappy, just that Travis may have also held his breath for the amount of time Wes had been under– just that subconscious empathy thing Dr. Ryan probably talked about, because Travis was a caring man, even towards jerks like Wesley Mitchell.

“That right there–” Wilkes had managed to sneak up behind Travis while the detective was preoccupied with watching his partner drown. “–is ice cold water. He won’t feel it at first, but soon, every breath is going to feel like fire going down.”

“My parents were Catholic,” Wes spat, fighting against the henchman’s hold on his hair. “Did this to me if I got a _B_ on a test, it’s nothi–”

Wes was shoved under again, and Travis forcibly loosened his gritted teeth.

“You really think this is gonna do anything to me?” He applauded himself for the solid amount of skepticism he managed to inject into his tone, talking loudly over the sounds of Wes thrashing in the trough. Wilkes, however, didn’t falter for a second.

“You’re the first detective that’s taken the ‘I don’t even care’ route first,” he mused. “The others always go with stoic silence. You must care for your partner a lot.”

“More like not at all,” Travis snarled. “Look, the cops? They don’t know anything, so screw with Wes all you like– just let me get out of here.”

Wes was resurfaced, and his frame was wrought up with trembles, though Travis thought those had more to do with anger than fear.

“You know what, Travis? Go _fuck yourself_ –”

And down again. Travis rolled his eyes and looked up at Wilkes, trying to communicate to him _See what I have to deal with?_ Wilkes just kept smirking.

“Now, boys,” he said, clasping his hands together in front of him, and Travis kept himself from tensing up. “There’s no rush. We have all the time in the world, here.”

//

By the twelfth round, Wes didn’t look like he had a stick shoved up his ass anymore. Rather, he looked a bit like a drowned cat, because after Phase One, Anger, had been Phase Two, Defensive, with his back arched and fingers flexing for any kind of hold to keep from going under again. Travis made himself lounge against his chair, assuming as comfortable a position as possible under a gun, even yawned once or twice, looking around annoyedly for any kind of idea as to how they were going to escape. Wes would hate how vulnerable he looked right now, back lacking in poise and eyes glazed over, breath coming in short chokes. His knees had long since given out, and the henchman was bracing Wes over the edge of the trough by his ribcage, where his shirt had torn and a bruise was forming on the skin. Wilkes, despite the little chuckle he couldn’t seem to help but make whenever Wes made some sort of involuntary sound of pain, had never taken his eyes off Travis, watching and gauging for a reaction, for Travis to break.

Travis cleared his throat.

“Look, it’s not like I don’t get what you’re trying to do here, but I honestly don’t care.” He dared a shrug, and his henchman barely moved. Good. He was getting them off their guard. “I already told you, the police don’t know anything, so you can go ahead and off that one.”

“Oh? And how about you?” Wilkes no longer looked amused, but he certainly wasn’t angry, or uncertain, or wary at all, either. Just measuredly blank, like all criminal douches seemed to be required to become.

“Let me go, and I don’t say anything about your little operation,” Travis answered.

“Or I can kill you both right here, and you still won’t say anything about our little operation,” Wilkes replied.

“Not if I bring you information.” Wilkes raised a dainty eyebrow, probably waxed and trimmed or whatever the terms were.

“You’re offering to become dirty?” Travis shrugged again, with a little bit more force. No reaction.

“Man, I live in a trailer,” he complained loudly, because Wes had started gurgling again. “I only went into the whole cop business ‘cause of my pop, but it ain’t working out for me.” He shot a dirty glare in Wes’s direction. “Especially not with him.”

A moment passed, and Wilkes finally looked away, his annoyingly smug eyes honing in on Wes’s lax body. With two fingers, he gestured for the henchman to bring Wes over (what, did he think he was the villain of a Bond movie, or something?), and slipped a gun from his pocket. Travis immediately leaned away, and Wilkes looked admonishingly at him.

“Isn’t this the part where I offer to let you off him yourself?” he said sarcastically. Before Travis could reply, however, Wilkes bent down and grabbed Wes’s chin to tilt his face up. Wes, bless his little trooper heart, shot a stream of spit right into Wilkes’s face, earning him a pistol whip to the side of his head and the satisfaction of seeing Wilkes’s calm facade crack just a little.

“I was right,” Wilkes hissed, shaking Wes by his jaw. “It is _far_ more satisfying to hurt you than the other one.”

“So _let me go_ ,” Travis said loudly. Wilkes looked up, irritated, at Travis.

“Enough of your bullshit, _detective_.” He straightened up after shoving Wes face-first into the cement floor. “We both know that you’re lying your face off, so tell me the truth. _How much does the police know._ ”

“Alright, alright, you got me.” Travis didn’t look down at Wes. “They know everything.”

“Everything?” Wilkes’s blank tone was back, but Travis knew he was edging on the wary side.

“ _Everything_ _,_ ” he replied solemnly. “Everything about me and your mama.”

Wes let out a harsh bark of laughter, overdone in Travis’s opinion, but he made his point. Wilkes’s face colored darkly, and he roughly stomped down on Wes’s back, sending the man into hacking coughs.

“Alright, if that’s the way you want to play,” Wilkes smiled nastily, “then let’s play.”


	2. 'Cause You Gotta Have Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets darker in both physical and psychological aspects, so be warned. Also, potential triggers for rape-like situations, but no non-con.

“I don’t– I don’t really understand.” Travis frowned at the henchman undoing the zip ties around his hands. “You’re actually pulling the _Do it yourself_ schtick?”

“Of course, of course,” Wilkes said breezily, pulling Wes up and shoving him forward. Wes stumbled a couple of steps, but managed to steady himself upright; Wilkes looked a bit disappointed. “It’s a very efficient method. I mean, not that you’ll actually go through with–”

The moment Travis felt his hands fall free, he surged forward and slugged Wes hard across the face. Without his arms to balance, Wes was knocked off his feet with the force of the punch, and as he struggled to right himself from being sprawled across the floor, Travis socked him in the stomach, right to the solar plexus. Wes exhaled sharply, blood along with spit splattering across the floor. Travis kept at it, throwing all his weight behind the kicks so that Wes’s body was shoved across the floor, leaving behind him a damp streak.

The moment Travis let up to catch his breath, Wes stumbled to his feet (but only barely catching himself this time) and spat a bloody wad of spittle right on Travis’s hand. Travis growled, grabbing Wes by the forearm and wrenching it back, forcing him down to his knees once more.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Wilkes sounded bewildered, and was visibly frazzled. At the note of hesitancy in their leader’s voice, the henchmen began to shift around from their circle formation around Wes and Travis, trying to see what Wilkes was up to. Travis rolled his eyes and leveled Wilkes with his most insolent look. “Are you– Are you _serious_?! You really hate your partner?!”

Travis’s only answer was to yank hard on Wes’s arm, the loud _Pop!_ as Wes’s shoulder was dislocated making Wilkes jump and the henchmen step closer to Wilkes in apprehension. With a roar of shock and disgust, Wilkes threw his arms up and turned away.

Wes turned his head up ever so slightly, eyes flashing with a silent message Travis imagined to be _I believe in you, buddy_ , not something derogatory and Wes-like, and Travis braced his palm against his partner’s back, shoving the shoulder right back into place. Before any of the henchmen could so much as open their mouths in surprise, Travis kicked out, nailing the one closest to him right in the nose. He felt Wes’s shoulder roll on his back as Wes did the same, the heel of his shoe catching the henchman in the jugular. Throwing his weight forward, Travis surged up and wrestled the Uzi from the now-prone man’s grip, turned it around at Wilkes just as he heard Wilkes click the safety off his pistol.

“Don’t even think about it,” Travis warned, hoisting the Uzi up higher, a much clearer threat, but from the look in Wilkes’s eyes, Travis tensed, preparing for a (futile, but still potentially harmful) shootout.

“You heard the man,” Wes suddenly piped up, followed immediately by the sound of his own submachine gun being cocked. In the time Travis took to disable his own henchman, Wes had slid across the floor to the third, quickly disabling the man and appropriating his gun. With two Uzis pointed at him, one held by a man bleeding from wounds given to personally by him, Wilkes began to look a bit hesitant about his shootout plan. Wes took a step forward. “ _Drop the gun._ ”

And that was all the motivation Wilkes need, the Glock falling to the floor faster than Wes had, its owner following on his knees, his hands on the back of his head.

“Had practice with that pose, huh?” Travis said scathingly as Wes stepped forward to kick away the gun.

“Look, you need me,” Wilkes began to say. “I’ll give you information under the condi–”

“Oh shut it,” Wes said almost gleefully as he slammed the butt of his gun into Wilkes’s head. Wilkes immediately crumpled to the floor, and Travis just gave Wes a look. “What?”

“That wasn’t protocol.”

“I just spent the better part of an hour being _tortured_ _,_ ” Wes said, bracing the Uzi on his bad shoulder before wincing and shifting it against his hip, instead. “I think I’m entitled to a bit of rule breaking.”

“I wasn’t judging. In fact,” Travis shrugged, “I rather like this side of you.”

Wes just lifted an eyebrow. “Oh do you now.”

“Just,” Travis coughed, “call in the cops.”

“Did you tell anyone we were coming after Wilkes?” Wes asked as Travis rifled through the henchmen’s jackets, looking for a cell phone.

“Not a word.” There was a walkie-talkie and a pager in Henchman #1’s pockets. Who the hell carried a pager these days? “Y’know Wes, you have got to start to be more trusting–”

“If _you_ didn’t tell anyone,” Wes interrupted, “and _I_ didn’t tell anyone, then you told them the truth, when you said that the cops didn’t know anything.”

“Yeah.” Second henchman didn’t have anything at all, except a wad of Starbucks napkins. “Figured they won’t believe the first thing I say no matter what.”

“Son of a bitch,” Wes breathed.

“Thank you,” Travis beamed, finishing up his pat down of the third and unfortunately empty-pocketed henchman. “Now are you gonna search Wilkes or what?”

Wes sat down on the floor, falling a bit on the harsh side. It was only then Travis noticed the shallow breaths he was taking, and the way Wes was caving in on himself... That didn’t look good.

“Alright, fine, make me do everything,” he said soothingly as he knelt down by Wilkes, idly kicking the two submachine guns nearby away from their small circle of unconscious kidnappers. It worried Travis when Wes didn’t even bother to look up and glare as Travis prepared to give Wilkes the most thorough pat down of his life. It wasn’t necessary, however, as the telling lump in Wilkes’s breast pocket told Travis the first place he should look. Unfortunately, that was also when Wes’s willpower gave out, his body slumping to the floor in a surely uncomfortable heap.

“Okay, hold on Wes,” Travis gritted out as he quickly dialed for the precinct. “I didn’t kick you _that_ hard. Don’t you dare die all over my conscience like that.”

//

Bruises, fractured ribs, mild hypothermia, and a bit of internal bleeding from the kidneys, but after a tense night of careful watch, the doctor said Wes would make a full recovery.

“I really didn’t kick you that hard,” Travis insisted. The silent _Did I?_ hanging still in the air like the dust particles lit by the sunlight through the hospital room window. Wes snorted loudly.

“I was the scrawny kid that’s always the smartest in the class. Travis, you kick like a nine-year-old girl.”

And that was that.

//

It was a solid month before Travis thought about the kidnapping again.

And no, that wasn’t a lie, because “to have thought” implied that he had spent time dwelling on that particular topic, and it was really more like brief flashes of memory. Both Dr. Ryan and the department-appointed psychologist have warned him about PTSD and flashbacks, and Travis may or may not have reneged on the “suggested treatments,” but the ignore-problem-until-it-disappears method was tried and true by both him and Wes, so he figured he really couldn’t go wrong there.

Until, he did.

It was a terrible case, the kind that had the morals of the story flipped inside out like a popped waterballoon, and those were just sad. The victim had been a serial rapist, and the murderer, the serial rapist’s serial rapee; worst part was, the technicalities meant they had to make the arrest with charges to murder, and it sounded a lot worse, spoken out loud to a weeping young woman covered in wounds, than it did on paper. Not for the first time, Travis was glad that Wes always gave the charges and rights (so much for getting the last word, huh, Wes?).

As Wes guided Olivia Halse down into the patrol car, she looked up, and Travis couldn’t help but meet her sad, sad gaze.

“The worst part was, I believed him,” she said, numb and soft. “He told me it wasn’t rape. I believed that son of a bitch.”

_I believe in you, buddy._

And suddenly, all Travis could see was Wes’s face, dirt and dust gathered unattractively in the lines on his brow, at the corners of his eyes, a thick drizzle of blood making its way down his nose and past his lips, dried flakes of red peeling off his skin and sticking to Travis’s knuckles, the ones that didn’t seem to wash off, always under his skin, buzzing for attention like they were doing now. Travis clenched his fist hard and closed his eyes, trying to shake his head of the image, because yeah, he got it already, Wes had been bruised and bleeding, had been hurt because of him, and of course he felt guilty, but that guilt dissipated after he talked to Dr. Ryan, didn’t it? After he “recognized” it wasn’t his fault, that the situation was out of his control? It didn’t matter that Wes’s face, frozen in that moment, eyes bright with meaning that changed with every passing minute of thought, had been all the kidnapping meant to him, that Travis actually remembered very little otherwise. It didn’t matter because he was done with it, Wes was done with it, _everybody_ was done with it, and it didn’t matter much anymore, right?

“–right? Yo, Travis, snap out of it.”

The light overheard in the warehouse had made the uneven bruise slathered across Wes’s face look jagged, almost 3D, and the more Travis stared at it, the more it seemed to spread, down, up, sideways, everywhere, and there’s just so much of it, so much blood underneath Wes’s skin that Travis had been so ready to spill, just to save his own hide, just to get out from a sticky situation.

“–not funny anymore. I’m seriously gonna leave you just standing–”

And Wes’s shoulder? So what if Travis had “fixed” it before, tons of people have fixed up Wes Mitchell before, because Wes was just broken all the time, wasn’t he? A messed up pile of a man, Travis told himself that he was helping to fix Wes, but he really wasn’t much of anything. Not to Wes. If Wes was Travis’s definition of a mess, then Travis wasn’t even the broom that helps sweep him up, just the unhelpful voice that calls for cleanups on aisle three.

“–down. Travis, calm– Fucking hell, _breathe_ , Travis. You have to breathe–”

Breathing, that was a thing. Didn’t Wes have trouble doing that at some point? Multiple points? Because goddamn ice water went down your lungs like fire, wasn’t that what Tristan Wilkes said? And Travis had _lounged_ , for fuck’s sake, lounged for the sake of a sham nobody bought, and he was secretly thankful that it was Wes and not him, wasn’t he? Of course he was worried, because Wes was his partner, for crying out loud, but Travis was mostly just thankful, no? Thankful he got to play the easy part in the unnamed play nobody wrote nor casted, and God, Travis was just a presumptuous dick, wasn’t he? What, he knew that Wes had a plan? Wes was being _held down in ice water and drowned_, fuck all if he had a plan. So Travis came up with the whole thing by himself. He had managed to misread the situation so damn badly Wes was in the hospital for two days, cast to desk duty for two weeks, and Travis had _laughed_.

“–sit, Jesus _Christ_ , don’t you paramedics know what to–”

Travis had let Wes down, his partner, the man he was supposed to protect in the line of fire and he had dropped Wes faster than a burning sack of potatoes. No, more than that, Travis hadn’t just let him down, _he ignored it_. Wes, on the ground, collapsed in pain and exhaustion? Travis had slapped him on the back and told him to buck up. Wes, strapped to a bed, then later, his desk, aggravated and restless? Travis had laughed and enjoyed his time investigating alone. Travis was impetuous, ignoring all responsibilities that came with the incident, with hurting Wes, and left Wes to deal with everything on his own, Travis was a _child_.

“–having a panic attack. Sir, I need to you focus on me and count to three.”

“–what I’ve been trying to tell him for the past ten minutes–”

“–give Detective Marks some space, pressure and loud noises aren’t helping–”

“With me now, Travis. Relax your shoulders, and one...”

And what, now he was having a panic attack? In the middle of a street, right after an arrest? Goddammit, Travis Marks, quiet the fuck down and do as the paramedic says.

“Two...”

“It’s working, why the hell does it work for him–”

“Detective Mitchell, _sh_ _!_ ”

Travis took a deep, shudder-y breath, and opened his eyes, resolutely looking at everything but Wes. Fuck, Wes. Travis needed to breathe, relax his shoulders, count.

“Three.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Criminal Minds reference, anyone?
> 
> Remembered as I finished writing this chapter, there was a prompt on the Common Law kink meme for Wes having a panic attack. Inspiration, I guess?
> 
> I welcome critiques, comments!


	3. Tonight, I'mma Fight

Travis took a deep breath before opening the door to his trailer.

“Okay, what the hell is going on?!” Wes started the moment Travis was in sight, clearly in his wide-eyed, nostril-flaring rant mode. This was good. This Wes, Travis could deal with. “Paramedics bring you away on an ambulance for a severe panic attack, I get to the hospital and they tell me you checked yourself out already, I go to the station and Captain says you’re on  _sick leave_  for three days. Travis, wha– Just tell me  _what the hell you’re doing_. ”

“You’re angry?” Travis wanted to take back the words the moment they were out of his mouth, because first, they didn’t do stupid things like talk about their feelings, and second, obviously. Wes was flushed red, his hands on his hips and flapping irritably at his suit jacket, and Travis hasn’t seen this side of Wes in a god awful long time. Ever since the Wilkes case, actually.

“Damn right I'm– Okay you know what? No.” Wes was visibly composing himself, and Travis’s hand was suddenly cold against the doorframe. Why did Wes follow Dr. Ryan’s methods  _now_? He fought the urge to close and lock the door until Wes went away, but Wes was speaking again, calmer this time, meeting Travis’s eyes with something like embarrassment, but mostly  _earnesty_. Travis squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. “I’m not angry, I’m  _worried_. Travis, what is going on?”

“Why are you being so damn nice to me?” Travis grounded out, and Wes should be angry, snap back at Travis because  _that tone was uncalled for_ , but he just looked confused, even a little concerned, instead.

“Travis, what are you talking about?” Wes used to be sharper, used to be able to ask that question like Travis had just burned down the White House and he was the frickin’  _president_.

“After I almost ruptured your  _kidneys_ , why the hell are you being so nice to me?!” Did Travis break that part of Wes, too? Not just his body, but the other things, the mind, the soul, whatever, the other things that made him Wes?

“Is that what this is about?” Wes was more guarded now, good, but still not normal, still not _angry_. Wes was always angry. Travis didn’t know what to do with himself, his barbed jokes and not-so-gentle ribbing, if Wes wasn’t angry. “The Wilkes case? Because I thought that we put that behind us–”

“No,  _you_  put it behind us.” Wes blinked, and frowned. Good. This was progress. This was good.

“What, and you have some unresolved  _issues_  I should know about?”

“Yeah, maybe I do,” Travis shot back, just to see Wes’s eyes narrow, peer at him like Travis was being deliberately obtuse, stubborn about a subject Wes has  _all figured out._

“Enlighten me,” Wes said with an ugly sneer, crossing his arms. Dr. Ryan’s voice announced, defensive, closed-off. Denial. Classic Wes Mitchell. Dr. Ryan’s voice also said, projecting, but Travis wasn’t going to pay any attention to that.

“Why is it always about you, huh?” Travis demanded, and Wes's expression was veering back into incredulous again, so Travis yanked the wheel hard, right back to familiar territory: Blame. "Would it kill you for someone,  _anyone_  to pay attention to  _me_  for once?"

"What the hell–"

"This is  _your_  fault!"

And then, Wes was back, all flashing eyes to stare down witnesses and shoulders drawn back to impress juries, angry. Angry at Travis. Travis, who he shouldn't be angry at because it wasn't Travis's fault he's already gone to therapy passed tests Wes knew it wasn't his fault Wes  _said_  it wasn't his fault, so it  _must_  be Wes's fault. Because that's all it boiled down to, in the end, between the two of them: Blame. Trigger fingers and pointer fingers, it was all the same, their relationship shot and stabbed to hell and it had to be  _somebody's_  fault, right?

"This is  _not_  my fault-"

"It is and you know it-"

"I don't know anything because  _you_  won't expla-"

"You can't just write off internal bleeding as a _job hazard_ -"

" _Because it is_. What do you want me to do, ask Wilkes to  _apologize_ -"

" _Yes_ , because apologies are such an _issue_  with you-"

" _I'm_  not the one with the issue here-"

Travis slammed his palm against his door. Wes didn't even have the decency to flinch, just shut up with his expression pinched. 

"No, you're not.  _I_  am." They stood still for a moment, and Travis remembered Wes's apology on the Whittaker case.  _I was wrong, and I'm sorry_. It had meant so much to Wes, so why couldn't he just do that now? Apologize, get it over with, and everything would be back to normal. He told Wes as much, and Wes threw his arms up with a noise of frustration.

"Apologize for  _what_? Travis,  _I don't know what you want from me!_ "

Travis stared as Wes dragged a hand down his face, taking deep breaths in textbook perfect increments, because Wes was still trying. What he was trying for, Travis didn't know. Travis didn't really know what he was trying for himself, either, but there had been a balance, before. Travis had felt on equal standing with Wes before, and now, he felt like he was waiting for Wes to toss a rope ladder down to fly him to safety, and Travis wasn't about to stoop that low. It was all too much to throw at a guy in one go, and he didn't even know what he was feeling anymore, his chest tight with frustration and his mind trying to simultaneously recreate and erase his meltdown earlier that day. Yelling didn't help, neither did being yelled at, and Travis was running fresh out of options here.

Distantly, Wes was talking, voice husky and begging for a drink, and it took Travis a moment to tune back in.

"...happed out there, it can't happen again. Now, I don't know if it's about the Wilkes case–"

"It's not," Travis interrupted gruffly, because on many levels, it wasn't. It  _wasn't_. Travis didn't want to think about it, really; he'd leave that to the flashbacks. Wes gave him a cautious look, then continued, hands in front of him in a placating gesture.

"Then, I don't know if it's about  _us_ , but it can't happen again."

Travis exhaled loudly.

"No, it can't." He felt his whole body fall lax at the note of finality humming in that statement, and Wes, stupid Wes, looked startled.

"That's not what I meant." He was back to the teeth-clenching thing, and Travis would play along, because he always did, with Wes.

"It's what  _I_  meant." And if that came out a bit more sentimental than either of them would like, Wes was just going to have to deal with it. "Goodbye, Wes."

"Goodbye my ass," Wes snarled, taking a step closer. "Travis, you're not going to run away from this!"

"I'm not running away, I'm being pragmatic-"

" _Pragmatic_ , that just a stupid sonovabitch excuse. Travis, stop dicking around like a stupid  _teenager_  and try to make sense!"

"You don't know me!"

Wes suddenly looked taken aback, and Travis knew that was a kind of blow neither of them have used in a while, since starting therapy, but he saw an in, and he was going to take it.

"What, you think you've got me  _all figured out_? Newsflash, Wes, you really, _really_  don't, and if you can just get your head out of your ass for a moment, you'd be able to see that." It was Travis's turn to take a step forward, now, and Wes stepped down from the stairs beneath his door. "You get dunked in a tank a couple of times, and you think the world revolves around you. What about me, huh? Any idea what I went through in there? No? Didn't think so. Because you never bothered to ask."

"You didn't- They didn't  _do_  anything to you," Wes said carefully, all of a sudden not meeting Travis's eyes anymore, and Travis bit out a laugh.

"They did, and you don't even care enough to  _ask_." Wes looked stricken, scanning Travis up and down as if looking for injuries, and he really was just- He really was just stupid, wasn't he? "Get out of here, Wes."

Wes caught the door before Travis could close it.

"What, did they- did they beat you, kick you around, I didn't hear anything so I just assumed-"

Travis put a hand on Wes's shoulder (the dislocated one, the fixed one, the one that had been swollen enough to be visible even under his suit jacket) and pushed, shoving Wes off his trailer. He didn't get it. He just didn't  _get it_ , and Travis was done waiting to be saved by Prince Mitchell in his helicopter. Travis was done waiting to be fixed.

“You didn’t even ask for an  _apology_ ,” he hissed before slamming the door in Wes’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it all goes to shit.
> 
> That was a shorter chapter, 'cause I'm still figuring out where to go from here. On one hand, I really want to fix it, but on another, I wanna keep building this, see where it goes. Better for the UST, as well.
> 
> So, I'm willing to bet that was very confusing. I'm a bit confused, too, so I'll just say this: Don't take anything Travis says seriously. Part of it is truth, yes, but the other parts are projection and panic and just plain meanness, because that's what they do. Next chapter is definitely in counseling, so dear Dr. Ryan will clear everything up then.
> 
> This is sort of my first time writing this kind of scenario, so I welcome any kind of constructive criticism! Along with comments in general, because those are nice. :) You guys make me so happy~


	4. Even With Our Fists Held High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly a therapy chapter, but I hope this explains a bit more about Travis's harangue.

"It's official: Travis has gone off the deep end," Wes announced with a vicious stab of his fork to the salad in front of him. Alex chewed on her hamburger noncommittally. "I'm serious. He is literally insane."

"It'll be alright," was all Alex said in response, and that was odd. Wes set his fork down, peering at her in suspicion.

"Aren't you supposed to be defending him?" he asked, studying her. "Or as Travis calls it, 'protecting his honor from my slander'?"

This time, Alex didn't even say anything, just shrugged, and set her burger down. Brushing the crumbs off her hands, Alex stood from the dining table and stepped back into the kitchen, where the scent of a fresh pot of coffee brewed nicely. Wes was still trying to figure it out when the kettle on the stove whistled, demanding attention and wait a minute, coffee _and_ tea? Wes's jaw went slack in unpleasant surprise.

"Tell me you didn't." And Alex only asked,

"Does Dr. Ryan like tea?"

//

"Well," Wes said deliberately, "this is sufficiently awkward."

"It's only awkward if you want it to be," Dr. Ryan answered evenly.

"Yeah Wes," Alex chimed in, just as demurely. "Don't be rude."

Wes was having the most surreal day of his life. Arresting the victim (because _Wes_ wasn't going to be convinced that Olivia Halse was the true victim, much less his case write-ups) had put a sour beginning on everything, and then Travis had a _panic attack_ , of all things, and then the whole argument Wes was still trying to figure out, because no matter how much he tried to put the pieces together, Travis's claims and accusations were just all over the place, and it was so much harder to sort out the truths from the bullshit, considering Wes himself was feeling a bit shaken. Travis was right– Wes had tried to put the Wilkes case behind him ( _tried_ was not the operative word here, because whatever Wes set his mind out to do, Wes did damn well, thank you), and yes, maybe on bad days Wes would stay longer at the hotel bar, downing room-temperature liquor and trying not to remember the taste of cold water on his gums and throat, but to have Travis, of all people, suddenly throw the memories back in his face? It was one of the few things Wes had thought Travis would have his back in no matter what, and now… It was different.

"What are you thinking, Wes?" Dr. Ryan suddenly asked, interrupting Wes's thoughts, and he glanced up, finding that Alex had disappeared when he was preoccupied, leaving him and Dr. Ryan in the kitchen, which alone brought back unpleasant memories of the Whittaker case and apologizing to Travis and to hell if she thought he was going to do that again. Wes told Dr. Ryan as much, and she just looked intrigued.

"Why do you think you should apologize to Travis?"

"I don't," Wes grounded out. "I didn't do anything."

"What did you fight about?"

"Oh hell if I know." Wes tried to stare Dr. Ryan down, not wanting to elaborate, but that never seemed to work with the therapist, did it? Must be the desensitization training they give in medical school. Wes quickly sorted through all the different versions of the truth he could give, since Dr. Ryan had an uncanny sensor for lies, and finally came up with, "Travis had a panic attack this afternoon, and then he ditched me at the hospital."

"What was the panic attack about?"

"That's what I wanted to know. We were bringing in the killer on a case, and all of the sudden, he just froze up. I thought–" Here Wes paused for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, because he didn't exactly have time for self-reflection in the middle of trying to save Travis from auto-asphyxiation and driving to the hospital and then the station and then all the way to Travis's trailer. "I thought maybe it was the case. The killer wanted revenge on her rapist, and before she was taken away, before Travis stopped breathin– had his panic attack, she said, she said that she regretted having believed the rapist, about it not being rape."

"And that set Travis off?"

"Yeah."

"Did you ask him about it when you went to confront him?" Wes bristled at the vague accusation that, okay, he knew wasn't an accusation, but it sure as hell read as one.

"No, I didn't." Despite Wes's acid tone, Dr. Ryan was unfazed.

"Why not?"

"Because he was too busy shouting about how I was an insensitive asshole in the Wilkes case and how I didn't know anything about what happened and how I was stupid for getting _hurt_ and–" His voice was approaching dangerous octaves, threatening to break, and Wes quickly looked away, elbow nudging his untouched dinner as he buried his face in his hand. Even after taking a moment to just breathe, all Wes could manage was a hoarse, "Fuck."

"Wes," Dr. Ryan began gently, and Wes hated that he looked vulnerable, but couldn't find the voice to tell her to shove her sympathy elsewhere. "Why do you think Travis said what he did? How did he appear to be feeling?"

"Pissed off, of course." Wes thought back to Travis, back hunched and framed by the trailer door, his hand on the wall beside him. "Agitated. Panicked."

"Panicked?"

"Yeah, he was doing that– that flexing thing with his hands, his finger." At Dr. Ryan's blank look, Wes sighed and elaborated, "What he always does when he's going on about something, tapping, clenching, like he wants to have his gun."

"Why do you think Travis felt panicked?"

"I– I guess he just had a _panic_ attack. Makes sense."

"But why do you think he had the panic attack?"

"Because of the Wilkes case!" It felt like Dr. Ryan was making Wes jump through circles, the same questions over and over again.

"Not the rape case?"

"Yes, the rape case, but also the Wilkes–" Wes felt his blood run cold, his nails scoring against the kitchen table as his palms slammed shut. "You don't think–"

"Aside from the head injury from when you both were initially knocked out, there was no indication of any sort of injuries on Travis's body," Dr. Ryan assured. Wes exhaled, eased by the knowledge that he hadn't been _that_ out of it to not notice his parter being– Well, point was, Travis wasn't, so that wasn't the issue here.

"So what's his problem, then?" Wes felt heavy, loaded down with a foreign burden. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, because Travis made far too many messes that he couldn't clean up on his own for Wes to be inexperienced with carrying another person's baggage. "The Wilkes case and the rape case are completely unrelated."

"Are they?"

It took a moment for Wes to comprehend what Dr. Ryan said, and when he looked up, she had that wise, sad look in her eyes, like a mother to a child who had deliberately did something bad, even though he knew better. It made his hackles rise, folding into himself with an angry guilt, not unlike how he felt earlier that evening with Travis's accusations. There was an urge to scream, _I didn't do it_ , to Dr. Ryan's face.

"Yes," Wes said instead, voice kept steady and even. "They were."

"I know this may be uncomfortable to listen to, but hear me out." Wes steeled himself against the psychological onslaught. "The psychology of rape on the victim's end is deeply intricate and often isolated, but on the rapist's end, it's always about the physical manifestation of control, the desire to overcompensate, to prove something."

"I know that–"

"What happened to you in there," Dr. Ryan continued, brushing away Wes's interruption. Wes wanted to look away, but somehow, Dr. Ryan had him pinned with her gaze, earnest and insistent. "Was not rape, but possessed definitive elements of it, such as the loss of control, the physical violation."

"I'm not a victim." That sounded like denial, even to Wes's ears. "I'm _not_."

"I think, perhaps before confronting the issue with Travis, you should be clear on your own standpoint in the Wilkes case," Dr. Ryan enunciated. "Now, I understand this might be a sensitive subject for you–"

"I'm not _sensitive_ about it because _nothing happened_." Wes stood up without realizing, body angled towards the hall leading out the front door, knees angled and ready to sprint. "We were caught, we had a plan, we got out. Nothing more than that."

"That's not what Travis thinks." Wes scoffed.

"Wasn't this about me?" he drawled sarcastically, but immediately cringed when Travis's words from before sprung up in his memory. _Why is it always about you, huh?_ What did that even mean? Wes knew that Travis knew perfectly well that Travis was the people-person in their relationship, the one that got _everybody_ , not just the girls. Wes was lucky to get _Travis_ on a good day, and this, this was the worst day of the fucking week.

"Something you'd like to share?" Dr. Ryan prompted. Wes blinked.

"Yeah, actually. There is." Wes quickly sat back down, because talking about Travis was much easier than talking about himself. "When we were arguing, Travis said that it was all about _me_."

"This is in regards to the Wilkes case?" Dr. Ryan asked, and Wes nodded. She folded her hands in front of her. "Well, when we spoke before and you gave me an account of the case, you told me that Wilkes decided to torture you instead of Travis, is that correct?" Another nod. "You might remember when Travis was having problems with his ex-partner, and his guilt manifested as suspicion and wariness. Perhaps something similar is happening here: Travis's guilt is manifesting itself as anger towards you."

"Why would he feel guilty?" This entire line of conversation was making Wes frustrated as hell. Everything he thought he knew was being turned on its head, from the Wilkes case to the most recent case and _Travis_. What the hell was Travis doing? "Look, Doc, I know Travis and I have our issues, but confronting each other about these issues is _not_ one of the issues. If he was having problems, he'd talk to me. I know he would."

"I don't doubt it." Dr. Ryan sounded gentle again, like she was afraid to prod Wes in fear of what he might do. Wes didn't meet her eyes. "But perhaps until recently, he didn't know that he was having any issues."

Now _that_ , that sounded like a possibility. Dumbass like Travis? Probably wouldn't know his issues if they sidled up against him in a tube top and miniskirt and whispered "I'm your issues" into his ear all sultry-like.

"Were his arguments disconnected or off in any way, non-cohesive?" Wes nodded eagerly. "Then I'm betting that chances are, Travis was forced to confront his feelings when he heard your rape victim, but he didn't know how to deal with them, so he did what he always do around you– get angry and argue."

"That's great," Wes said energetically, picking up his fork again. "So if you'd just go to his trailer and tell him to sort his shit out and come apologize–"

"You and I both know that's not how this works, Wes."

She was doing the stern-look again. Wes put down his fork. Again.

"Look, there's nothing I can do. A month ago, I did that whole 'It's not your fault' thing with Travis, and it's his fault he didn't listen."

"Is that really what you think?"

Wes stubbornly grabbed his fork (once more; third time's the charm, right?) and shoved a hefty piece of lettuce into his mouth. Dr. Ryan gave him a long look, then sighed, arm reaching around the back of her chair for her purse.

"I can see this is as far as we're going to get tonight," she said amicably. "I'll be off, then."

It was then Alex magically appeared out of nowhere, smiling her perfect hostess smile.

"It was great having you, Dr. Ryan," she said pleasantly. "I hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"Oh, no trouble at all," Dr. Ryan replied.

"Far too much trouble," Wes grumbled.

"So I'll see you at our next session, then, Wes?" Wes quickly swallowed a baby carrot.

"Uh, last time I checked, you do _couples_ therapy. Travis and I broke up; I'm not going without a partner." He thought he did a decent job at keeping the bitterness out of his tone, but from the sympathetic looks the women were giving him, Wes had failed miserably.

"You just make sure you come, and I'm sure everything will be sorted out," Dr. Ryan finished. "Thank you very much for your hospitality."

Wes was polishing off his burger when Alex came back from walking Dr. Ryan to the front door. He took his time brushing the crumbs off the table and onto his plate as Alex stood in the kitchen doorway, her hands on her hips.

"So how did it go?" she asked the moment Wes glanced towards the sink behind her. From Alex's pose, Wes could tell that she wasn't about to let him wash his dishes until he answered; the woman knew how to play dirty. But Wes was done with feelings for this evening, had long since reached his quota for the day, hell, the _week_.

"Fan _tastic_ ," he answered, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Travis and I are planning a June wedding."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Dr. Ryan and Alex just rendezvous and have tea parties and talk about their hopeless boys all the time.
> 
> Once more, reference alert. Artemis Fowl, anyone?
> 
> Reviews, constructive criticism are welcomed!


	5. Now You're In My Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit late of an update, but here it is, a chapter to ease the mood. Enjoy!

"I don't want to talk about it, Chief," Wes announced preemptively from his desk. A quick glance at the bottom right corner of his computer screen told him 1:15, and yup, Sutton was right on time, as per usual. Or, usual for the past two days, since Mike had taken it upon himself to offer his _incredible emotional_ insights into Travis's sick leave and Wes's reaction. Rather, Wes's lack of a reaction, because Wes hadn't felt the need to extensively complain about Travis's habit of slacking off, not after Dr. Ryan's talk with him, anyways. He felt a sense of grim satisfaction when Sutton's footsteps paused behind him. (Had it been Travis, Wes would be grumpily fending off pointless questions and idiotic assumptions right now.) (But that was just a stupid thought, because Travis wouldn't be coming to Wes to fix Wes's problem with Travis– he'd actively avoid Wes until Wes's problem with Travis was no longer relevant, as their current situation stood to eagerly prove.)

"It's not about Travis," and even Sutton didn't believe that, if his clear avoidance of Wes's incredulous glance was any indication. "Fine, not anymore. We got reports of a 211 in progress. Usually we'd just send in uniforms, but as you can see–" He gestured to the almost empty bullpen. "–we're a bit understaffed at the moment. Mind heading over and taking a look?"

Wes blinked. That was new.

"For the past two days you couldn't stack enough paperwork on my desk to keep me out of the field," Wes said suspiciously, "and now you're sending me into a place with _guns_ while Travis and I are… otherwise indisposed?"

"Figured some fresh air would do you good," Sutton replied gruffly. He held out a post-it note with an address scribbled on it to Wes. "Do you want it or not?"

"Are you kidding me?" Wes was already shrugging into his jacket when he snatched up the post-it. "I'd say I'll be back soon, but that would probably be a lie."

"Just don't shoot anyone!" Sutton called meekly as Wes pushed open the entrance doors.

"Only if they shoot at me first," Wes called back, a manic grin making its way across his face. "God I hope they shoot at me."

//

"I'm on sick leave, Chief," Travis grumbled into his pillow, the cold plastic of his phone held gingerly against his ear. "That means no work calls."

"I wanted to keep you updated." Sutton sounded oddly indifferent over the line, and despite his instincts to stay sprawled over his bed, Travis lifted his head and pressed the phone a little closer.

"I don't need to be updated," Travis said carefully. "I'm not currently working on any cases."

"But Wes is." Travis stiffened.

"Well good for him, taking cases without me," he said, propping himself onto his elbow. "Now, if there's nothing else–"

"It's an emergency high-risk robbery," Sutton interrupted, still frustratingly inscrutable (damn Dr. Ryan for teaching him so well). "We're low on manpower, so Wes will probably be there with a squad of first responders he's never met or talked to. With a gun."

Travis was already juggling the phone through the sleeve of an old shirt, digging around for socks and shoes (it had always been much easier to get dressed with Wes around– Travis claimed it was Wes's uncanny ability to make everyone want to do the _opposite_ of getting naked, but it was weird to admit that he would've been out the door about five minutes ago had Wes been there). Before Travis grabbed his gun, though, he had to ask, for appearance's sake, "Why are you telling me this?"

"To get you to do your goddamn job," Sutton said gruffly. "I'll text you the address. You better not get shot. Or get Wes shot. Or shoot Wes yourself–"

"Alright Chief," Travis interrupted, the conversation already far out of his comfort zone. "I'm on my way."

"About time," were Sutton's last grumpy words before hanging up the call, and as Travis started up his motorcycle, he had to wonder if Mike Sutton, even after Dr. Ryan's extensive and successful therapy, managed to retain some of the manipulative devil he used to be after all.

//

Wes pulled up into the front of the Wishing Well Cafe, and promptly slammed his head against the steering wheel, which, of course, honked the horn, which in turn caught the attention of one Travis Marks looking confusedly at the door of the cafe. As soon as Travis saw Wes's car, his expression instantly darkened; his helmet came back on and a leg was already slung over the seat of his bike, and well, Wes wasn't going to have that, was he?

" _Travis,_ " he bellowed as he slammed the door of his car (a bit too hard– he cringed internally for his baby). Travis visibly stiffened in his leather jacket, and for all intents and purposes looked like he was going to drive away anyways. But as Wes stomped towards the cafe, pointedly holding the door open (an elderly couple sent him very confused looks of thanks as they exited), Travis slumped, all the fight going out of him.

"There's no robbery, is there?" Travis asked wearily as he trudged up to Wes, who had maintained a ramrod straight back and murderous glare even as Travis took his time locking up his bike.

" _Obviously,_ " Wes shot back scathingly. The bell on the door chimed merrily as it closed behind them, leaving the two detectives in the underlit, cozy, and above all, _familiar_ cafe, because this was just their life now, apparently. Couples therapy, emotional breakdowns, and manipulative bosses– the universe seemed out to make their lives a sitcom. And not a good sitcom, either. Just a wannabe independent director's midlife crisis. One that would actually throw the warring couple into the cafe where they first got to know the not-so-annoying side of each other, where they spent hours in companionable silence after their first _horrible_ case, where they first decided that _they_ were worth working for.

"I hate my life," Travis muttered, and it must've been the heady ambiance of the room that made Wes clap a sympathetic hand to his shoulder.

"I'm with you there, buddy. I'm with you there."

//

"Travis, I know what's wrong with you."

Travis couldn't even muster up the energy to be properly bitter, sitting in the snug corner booth with a hot cup of coffee in his hands, just muttered sullenly, "Oh do you."

"Dr. Ryan backed me up on this," Wes continued assuredly, and Travis wanted to shove the cheese danish in Wes's hand into his mouth. Whole. But Dr. Ryan had dissuaded them from violent first reactions a long time ago, and Travis didn't want to disappoint Dr. Ryan, no matter how much Wes's smug, knowing face deserved it. "You're still feeling guilty over the Wilkes case."

Travis's first reaction was, of course, to deny the accusation, but the look on Wes's face was far too expectant for Travis's liking, so he decided to run with it, if only to throw Wes off his game.

"So what are you going to do about it?" Travis felt a brief surge of satisfaction as Wes blinked in surprise, but the man was stubborn, setting his food down as he sat forward, staring sternly into Travis's eyes.

"Tell you to stop," he answered, and Travis was about to snort when he realized the look on Wes's face was, god forbid, _earnest_.

"Man, you serious?" Travis's cup hit the tabletop with a loud cling. "You can't just tell someone to stop feeling something. Damn, no wonder you don't have any friends!"

Wes's hands slapped down dangerously close to his danish. "I have friends. And besides, it has to do with me, so I can tell you what to do."

"No you _can't._ "

"Yes I can, and I'm telling you to _stop._ "

A loud crash, and the cafe was stunned into silence. Immediately, Travis and Wes both turned to the source of the commotion, and stared along with the rest of the room's occupants as a man stood, panting and red-faced over a flipped table, glaring at the woman sitting across from him.

"What I make can't satisfy you anymore?!" he snarled, gesticulating wildly as the woman sat frozen in fear. "Fine! You want money, I'll give you money!"

Travis and Wes were up and running the moment the man reached around for the gun tucked in the back of his pants, but had to skid to a stop as he fired two shots into the air.

"Everybody shut up!" he roared over the screams of the customers. "This is a robbery!"

"LAPD, drop your weapon!" Travis shouted as he pulled his own gun, and he wanted to cherish the look of shock on the man's face, he really did. But then he had to go and grab the woman and hoist her in front of him, the gun to her head.

"Wha– Who the hell called the police?" he yelled, panicked, as the woman sobbed in his arm.

"Nobody, _dumbass_ , we were here first." Couldn't Wes keep his thoughts to himself for just one minute? And what was that, _we were here first_? Childishly shooting his mouth off was what always got Wes into trouble– in therapy, in the _Wilkes_ case– and was Travis the only one that remembered consequences now? And since when did Wes turn into the careless one, wasn't that Travis's job? What, did Wes assume Travis's role in the short time Travis had been gone from the precinct, did Wes _replace_ him already? And that didn't even make sense, because Wes clearly had everything figured out, knew how to work his cases and live his life and didn't need Travis like Travis needed him, the incessant need for Wes's glares and that proud little smirk for whenever Travis did something right, all Travis had to offer was empty promises and let-downs, as if Wes was one of Travis's one night stands, and the entire situation was _far_ too similar to the Wilkes case for Travis's liking, for Travis's comfort, for Travis's need to _breathe_ –

And Travis needed to get a hold of himself, needed to stop second guessing himself, because another panic attack would just be the cherry on top of an already absurd situation. So Travis took a deep, steadying breath, allowed for his senses to take over, and followed his first instincts.

He stepped between the gun and Wes.

"Okay, I'll handle this," he announced loudly to the room in general, but Wes got the message, huffing loudly and stepping to the side, where the robber can clearly see his pissed off expression.

"And what's that supposed to mean, huh? I'm trying to do my job and you're stopping me–"

"It's just one guy, I got this," Travis said, allowing his gun to lower, just a little, as he felt the robber's attention shift back and forth between him and Wes. Wes threw his hands up in exasperation.

"You just keep playing that lone wolf game, thinking you're some kind of hotshot if nobody knows anything about you," Wes hissed. "Well fuck you. Go ahead. Handle this by yourself, then."

With that, Wes tucked his gun back into the holster and stomped out of the cafe, the bell ringing behind him, and Travis had to wonder if _he_ had always played that role with such… _theatrics_. Probably not. Wes was a drama queen, after all, and Travis was better in the stomp-out-and-circle-around character by far. They'd have to reevaluate this particular strategy for when they get back to the precinct.

(And didn't _that_ thought ping around his chest for a bit? Slamming into his ribs and forcing Travis to admit that he and Wes worked, that they worked _well_ , so perhaps the Wilkes case wasn't a precedent, but an anomaly…)

But there was the robbery to worry about right now, and Travis took the confused lapse in the robber's concentration to sigh heavily.

"Son of a bitch. I give him everything and this is how he treats me?" Travis complained loudly. The robber's head snapped right around at the familiar sentiment. Travis pretended to just notice the look. "You too, huh?"

"Y-yeah." The robber barked out a hysterical laugh, and gestured at the woman with his gun, prompting another round of frightened sobs. "This– This _bitch_ took everything from me, and now she wants to leave me."

"Damn." Travis shook his head in sympathy, dropping his gun entirely. "Y'know, sometimes, sometimes I wish he'd stop being all talk and just _leave_. Put me out of my misery. You know what I mean?"

The robber, who had been fervently nodding in agreement, took an eager step forward.

"But," Travis continued carefully, "I've already given him so much of my life, y'know. I can't get that all back. So I work my ass off, and he's still threatening to jump ship everyday–"

"Ungrateful bitch." The robber was crying now, the heavy red in his cheeks matching the woman's as his hands shook, gun sliding down her neck. He sobbed loudly, yelled, "I love you. I love you so fucking much and I'm _ruining my life_ for you–"

"But it doesn't have to be that way," Travis quickly interrupted, seeing his in. He took another cautious step forward before the robber's attention turned back on him.

"What?" He sounded small and lost, another man broken in the name of love.

"Listen. I can get you out of here." Travis paused before deciding to take a gamble, sliding his gun into his pocket and spreading his arms out wide. "What's your name?"

"I– I don't–"

" _What's your name?_ " Travis pressed, making sure to keep his posture open, even as he dropped his voice from complaining-about-Wes to bedroom-demanding. The robber gulped.

"It's– It's Bradley."

"Alright Bradley, you and I, we're on the same boat." Travis kept his tone steady and low, though he was ready to pull his gun in case it all went south. "I know how you're feeling, and I understand. I get you, man, so I'm gonna let you get out of here."

"Wha– You're serious?" Eyes wide and teary, Bradley suddenly reminded Travis of one of his younger foster brothers, the expression of complete and utter shock on their faces as they were guided into their new home, not able to believe their luck.

"You didn't hurt anybody, didn't take anything. Just get out of here, alright?" Travis beckoned, and Bradley the Robber, Bradley the little boy who just wanted his girlfriend to understand his love, nodded, and pushed the woman forward. Travis almost wanted to actually let him go. But, "Take the backdoor so nobody sees you, yeah?"

Where, of course, Wes was waiting. The moment Bradley shoved the door open and sprinted out, Wes ducked, grabbed him by the knees and threw Bradley over his shoulder. He hit the ground hard, the gun clattering to the ground, where Travis immediately kicked it far away.

"You alright?" Wes grunted as he handcuffed Bradley. Travis only sighed shakily, suddenly feeling exhausted as a uniform took Bradley away. He jumped when Wes slapped a hand on his shoulder, looking disproportionately worried for the recently-diffused situation. "Travis. Don't go blanking out on me again."

"I'm fine," Travis snapped, but he didn't even have the energy to keep up the anger. "Just… I liked him."

"Well, everybody's gotta take consequences for what they do," Wes said meaningfully, and Travis surprised them both by bursting out laughing. A few incredulous moments later, Wes started laughing too, and pretty soon, both of them were wheezing, Wes's arms braced against the back wall of the cafe, Travis's back already pressed against it.

"Alright, I'm never trying to be like Dr. Ryan again," Wes announced, still gasping for air, which set Travis into another fit of giggles.

"You bet your ass you're not." Travis turned his head, meeting his partner's eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, they clicked. There was air, there was sunlight, there was a familiarity between them. Sure, there was still the ball of tangled sentiments hovering above them, but for once, neither felt the need to pick at the knots, just savoring, for the moment, the _ease_ between them.

"I guess the Wishing Well hasn't lost its magic," Travis murmured. The time it took to properly soak up that sentiment was also approximately how long it took for both of them to decide it was far too _mushy_ a sentiment to be tossing around, so they quickly changed the subject.

"Sutton is the devil's incarnate," Wes declared.

"Clearly," Travis agreed. "He tells us there's a robbery, there's no robbery, and then there _is_ one? There's definitely a higher power at work here."

"Speaking of higher powers, if we leave now," Wes said, an easy smile still playing at the corners of his mouth, "we can still make it to Dr. Ryan's."

"Can we take my bike?"

Wes laughed loudly.

"Over my dead body."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the reference. Zombieland is one of my favorite movies.
> 
> At first, I couldn't really decide where to take this, but I figured we all need a breather. Well, I did, anyways. I've been on the Common Law Kink Meme a lot for the past... week. The prompts there are beautiful, and I've taken it upon me to fill one myself, so there's that, juggling with this. But fear not! There's a resolution coming. I can see it in the horizon.
> 
> Reviews are beautiful and make my world go round. :)
> 
> (And I have got to stop naming my chapter titles after annoying pop songs.)


	6. We Pulled Too Many False Alarms

The ride to therapy began… quiet. It wasn't the stiff, uncomfortable quiet that was the calm before the storm, nor was it the awkward quiet between two men simply too stubborn to concede a point worn out over countless arguments. If Wes had to put a name to it, he would call the quiet… _aware_. Something tangible, a manifestation of the perception they've both gained in the past week, as opposed to a mere reaction. Travis's presence buzzing beside him in the passenger seat, their energies combined into something constant and thrumming that Wes was constantly _aware_ of. Wes was also _aware_ that he sounded like a pothead's interpretation of a Tarkovsky film, but that was really the only way he could think of to describe the _thing_ between him and Travis–

"Alright? You've been looking a bit constipated over there, Wes."

–and it was gone. Count on Travis to completely annihilate the mood. Wes relayed this observation to Travis, who looked aghast at the very implication that he would be responsible for the disappearance of the _thing_ between them and Wes was going to stop emphasizing words in italics, now, because things were getting awkward, and internal monologuing was not a good habit to get into (as a reliable resource told it). It took Wes a couple of head shakes to get the disturbing thoughts of his mind and his concentration back online. Travis was still giving him the I-Can't-Believe-You look.

"I do _not_ kill moods."

Force of habit, Wes shot back childishly, "Yeah you do."

"No, I don't." Travis sniffed and crossed his arms. "In fact, I _make_ moods. Cultivate them like you wouldn't believe, because you, Wesley Mitchell, have got no game."

Wes should really be tired of the same conversations. Both of them should. But his pride wanted what his pride wanted, even if it meant arguing in a tone that any decent lawyer, much less Wes, could argue to be considered as overcompensation, "I've got game."

"No, no you don't." Travis looked awfully pleased with this line of conversation. "In order to have game, you need to work with moods, which is easy for _me_. But _you_ clearly don't know anything about moods or seducing women."

"Says the one who killed _this_." Wes, not taking his eye off the shiny red Porsche that had been trying to edge in in front of him for a solid ten minutes of traffic, attempted to convey the _thing_ that had been between them by flapped his hand awkwardly over the gearshift.

"Well, I'm not trying to seduce you, am I?" Travis tried to sound reasonable, and Wes just snorted.

"Right. And why the hell would you need to?"

Approaching a red-light, the Porsche took the opportunity cut sharply into Wes's lane, and Wes was momentarily too busy cursing the driver to a thousand different hells to notice the sudden look of interest on Travis's face. Neither of them said anything to each other while waiting at the red-light, taking a left, and pulling into the parking lot, with Wes grumbling under his breath all the while. After Wes cut the engine, however, and noticed that Travis was still watching him, not showing any signs of wanting to get out of the car, he replayed the conversation in his head, and accidentally slammed his palm into the steering wheel.

"I wouldn't need to seduce you, huh?" Travis asked smugly as Wes tried to convey his apology to the passing old man glaring at his car, who had jumped when Wes honked at him.

"That's not what I meant," Wes denied carefully, "and you know it."

"I'm just saying…"

Wes resolutely got out of the car, closing the door behind him and staunchly refusing to meet his partner's mocking gaze. "Travis, we're not talking about this."

There was suddenly pressure on his arm, and before Wes could reflexively elbow whoever was behind him, Travis spun him around and let go, looking surprisingly serious for someone who had just heard from Wes's mouth what he heard.

"How about we make a deal?" Wes peered at him suspiciously.

"I'm listening."

"I'll talk to Dr. Ryan about the Wilkes case," Travis proposed, cadence slow and voice determined, "if _we_ talk to Dr. Ryan about _this_."

For one long, mouth-gaping minute, Wes tried to interpret that in every way, in _any_ way other than _that_ way, but the pressing gaze Travis was pinning him with left little room for interpretation.

"Why?" he finally managed. A small crease appeared on Travis's brow.

"Because we've tried everything else, and so far, nothing's worked."

Panic set in, white and cold, and Wes blurted, "What makes you think _this_ will work?"

"I'll make this work," and didn't he sound convinced? A burst of hysterical laughter escaped Wes.

"But you can't!"

A flicker of something– anger, embarrassment, maybe even hurt– lit across Travis's eyes, and even Wes didn't know how to undo that statement, this entire conversation. Frankly, he didn't know if he wanted to. He was tired of sorting through the emotional mess between them, tired of being _hurt_ by whatever weapons Travis could glean from the pile, would casually toss his way. Travis wanted to air out dirty laundry, Wes was going to bring out everything, no matter how awkward it could get, no matter how much it could hurt. Wes wasn't going to back away now.

"You want to talk, Travis?" He really wasn't going to back away. Even if he sounded embarrassingly sincere. Even if he had to stop himself from reaching out and making sure Travis wouldn't run away (Wes swallowed another pang of panic at that possibility, because after three long days, they _finally_ got everything back to play, and Wes really didn't think he could take another hit right now, when they were still healing, when it still had the potential to hurt _so damn much_ ). "Let's talk."

And Travis, Travis _got it_. Travis's hand was moving, back to Wes's elbow, and before he could stop himself, Wes's hand snapped up and caught Travis's wrist between his fingers. The contact instantly made Wes forget the pressing desperation at the back of his throat, and Travis must've read _something_ in his face, because he nodded, his game face on, eyes flashing with determination.

"Alright," Travis said, and Wes grinned. "Let's do this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long to update, and it's not even that long... I have the actual therapy session written out in bits and pieces all over the place, but I'm having a hard time on the actual execution of the chapter... Eh.
> 
> So many thanks to people still reading and holding on. I appreciate it, lovelies. RL is just a huge slap in the face, but I will do my best!!


	7. This is Me Swallowing My Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had most issues with POV here... I tried third-limited, which turned out all action; third-omni, which was just plain weird. I finally decided to attempt to capture the whole air of group therapy by going with Dr. Ryan's POV. So here it is, what the psychologist actually makes of Travis and Wes's relationship.
> 
> Enjoy!

"So we have a problem."

" _A_ problem. Right." Clyde snorted unceremoniously. The general lack of reaction was a testament to exactly how close the group had grown, though a lesser psychologist would've pegged it for antagonism. Fortunately, Emma was quite adept at her particular skill set, and was willing to give everyone the benefit of the very minimal doubt anyways.

"No, hang on," Wes interrupted, fixing Travis with a pointed look. " _You_ have a problem. Not we."

"Not yet, anyways." Travis's tone wasn't loaded like Wes's had been, but there was still an edge there. The group traded uneasy glances, sensing it was one of _those_ days. Emma tactfully cleared her throat.

"Then we should get started, no?" After sweeping through the circle, she let her gaze fall on Wes. "Wes, I understand you and Travis had another argument. Do you want to tell us what it was about?"

"Why is it always me?" Wes protested indignantly, much to the exasperation of the group, that was (unfortunately) far too used to the detective's uncooperative protests. To their astonishment, however, Travis raised his hand, expression a mix of determined and sheepish.

"Actually, can I start?" Hearing Travis's peace offering for what it was, Emma nodded genially, curious to the progress the two have made in the time she had let them be. They had arrived together, after all. She had not heard the distinctive roar of Travis's bike earlier that day.

"By all means, Travis. Go ahead."

"Alright, so you all remember the Wilkes case?" The way Travis didn't sit forward and the way his eyes failed to gain a mischievous glint declined his words an air of drama, which was good, Emma supposed, since Travis wasn't treating this like a story to entertain the audience with. For a man who constantly tried to make the best of himself, this was a concession. Sneaking a glance at Wes, Emma noted his lawyer face, the piercing, yet blank stare she's seen him wear whenever a subject was played too close to his heart, and he felt like he had to ward them off with cited regulations and a chilling discipline. _That's always been how he's won his cases_ , Emma thought wryly. _No reason why the same method shouldn't work in real life._

Travis managed a weak smile in face of the sympathetic nods and winces from a group, and continued, "Well, a couple of days ago, I, uh, had a panic attack, because what happened in the Wilkes case finally… sunk in, I guess." Taking a pause to clear his throat, Travis was wringing his hands in front of him and staring determinedly at the ground. "But I didn't really– I hadn't handled– Well, basically, I flipped my shit on Wes. Said a lot of things, didn't mean a lot of them. So, Wes?" He took a deep, steadying breath and turned to his partner. "I'm sorry."

"Uh." Wes looked completely off balance, his usually cut-and-dried pose held awkwardly as he blinked rapidly at Travis's wide-eyed stare. Emma stifled a sigh. Oh no. And it was going so well, too. "I– Okay, sure. It's… fine."

"He said sorry," Dakota announced excitedly. "Isn't that a really big step for him?"

Travis smiled contritely as the group applauded, and Wes's eyes narrowed accordingly.

"Wait a minute." It was Wes's turn to take the offensive, apparently. The two really had the battling for dominance facet down to a pat. Having never seen such textbook examples of an alpha fight, Emma was rather impressed. "You're just saying that so we can get to the other issue."

Other issue. Not yet, anyways. There was clearly something much bigger at play here, and as usual, Wes thought he had control of the situation, while Travis enjoyed yanking his chain around.

"Hey," Travis shrugged indifferently. "I talked about the Wilkes case. You have to uphold your end of the bargain now."

There was an advantage for playing the omnipresent being in the room; you had refuge in audacity. And that little grant of invisibility certainly paid off, for whenever Emma made herself known, made _Dr. Ryan_ known, she could always catch the sleekest of crooks off his balance.

"Travis," she cut in smoothly before Wes could say anything. "Just now, you said you didn't mean a lot of things you said to Wes during your argument. I'm curious– of all the things you said, which ones _did_ you mean?"

Travis's smile turned empty like flipping off a light switch. The difference was fascinating.

"None of them." His answer sounded strained, and his hands had stilled, tucked between his knees. Travis was a man that fought with personas and lies; he would never let people see had he been truly nervous. _This_ , though, this was the fight-or-flight response thrumming through Travis's entire frame. Even Wes looked worried off to the side. But Emma was going to press. Crooked bones have to be re-broken in order to heal straight.

"You said you didn't mean _a lot_ of them, not _all_ of them." She kept her voice even, nonjudgmental, but injected enough steel to make it clear that Travis wasn't wiggling his way out of this one. But this wasn't her battle. She could lead them to water, but she couldn't make them drink– though frankly, at this point, it felt like she's grabbed Travis and Wes by the scuffs of their repressed, immature necks and shook them at the water so hard, the bloody trough broke. She wasn't about to stop trying, however. "Wes, from what you told me of your argument, you also had questions about Travis's sincerity regarding several remarks?"

"Yeah." Wes had adapted a contemplative expression, the more expressive of the pair (not because Travis didn't show emotion– but there was just that implicit sense of dubiety for every word he says, every face he makes). "I do."

"That wasn't part of our deal–"

"You told me–" Wes wasn't rising to Travis's bait. Not this time. "–that I didn't pay any attention to you."

"Was that a truth or a lie?" Emma asked, feeling it was still necessary to conduct the conversation on same level, in case the accumulated tension blew up in everyone's faces.

Travis answered immediately, "A lie, of course."

"So Wes pays a sufficient amount of attention to you?"

"What? That's not what I meant."

"You said that you lied about Wes not paying any attention to you."

"I– He doesn't. He doesn't pay any attention to me."

"You were telling the truth, then?"

"…Yeah. I guess."

The way both boys could talk circles around themselves was frustrating, but nevertheless, Emma nodded firmly, turning her attentions back on Wes.

"And would you agree that that's the truth, Wes?"

"Of course not," Wes said sharply. "I pay plenty attention to you. How can I not? You're just, _everywhere_ all the time."

"Then perhaps Travis is seeking a specific _type_ of attention?"

There was no biting retort, just Wes glancing over at Travis, then doing a double-take when Travis's eyes stayed fixed on Dr. Ryan.

"That's a perfect segue to our second topic of the day." Travis spoke too quickly for Wes to stop him in time. "Five minutes ago, Wes propositioned me."

A beat.

"From what Dr. Ryan here says–" Wes's inflection was musing, yet awkwardly lilting in surprise and ferocity. "– _you_ propositioned me _first_."

The group broke out in excited hums and chattering. Emma decided then to stop feeling guilty about focusing most of the group's time on Travis and Wes, their problem couple, since the others were probably getting far more entertainment than they normally would, even with their struggling relationships. She did make a note to concentrate on broader topics next session, though, an umbrella issue that could envelop all couples.

"Travis–"

Wes cut across Dr. Ryan. "Is she right?" Travis's silence was telling. " _Shit_ ," Wes hissed. "When did that happen?"

"You didn't have to go through what I did in there." Travis's voice was dangerously low, anger simmering like a force around him. The group instantly fell to all levels of silence. There was no doubt as to what he was referring to. Wes, however, Wes didn't back down.

"I still have a scar; I think I know–"

"You didn't have to _watch_ ," Travis snarled, snapping to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor behind him. Not to be outdone, Wes quickly followed him up. "You didn't have to feel _useless_ as your partner was tortured in front of you. You didn't have to act like you couldn't care less when you couldn't _breathe_ , when I kicked you across the fucking _room_ –"

"You got us out of there!" The corners of Wes's mouth curved up in a hysterical sort of smile– the kind he used to placate flustered witnesses to encourage the normalcy of a situation, but slightly morphed, because Travis was clearly too far gone to be eased by a _grin_. "Your plan saved us and got Wilkes in custody!"

"Boys," Emma interrupted, a single hand held up to indicate a momentary pause. She didn't want to upset the delicate balance of anger and honesty between the two. "This is heading in a very good direction, but before I let you continue, I need to ask. Wes, do you remember what I asked of you the last time we talked?"

"What? I don't remember–" _I think, perhaps before confronting the issue with Travis, you should be clear on your own standpoint in the Wilkes case_. He did remember.

"Do you have an answer, Wes?"

"It hasn't changed," Wes replied, eyes flashing. "I'm still not a victim."

Emma lowered her hand, and glanced pointedly at Travis, who looked stunned by the conversation that Wes had shrugged off like nothing. That was the meat of the matter, after all. Control turned into doubt turned into guilt turned into anger. Emma couldn't say she knew of a precedent for Travis's behavior, but it was a logical process. As logical as emotional matters got, anyways. Travis had felt guilty for the happenings of the Wilkes case, but with his every instinct screaming at him to _not apologize not admit never let yourself be blamed_ he had channeled that guilt into the most familiar reaction he had to Wes– anger. Rage. Blame. It was a vicious cycle that could've torn the couple irreversibly apart.

" _Travis_." For they truly were a couple, the way they stood as individuals, but came together as reactions of each other. Wes voiced the anguish that refused to acknowledge itself to Travis, and Travis played his stricken expression off of the hurt Wes projected. "It wasn't your fault. I wasn't hurt."

Travis's snort was inelegant, proving a point. "Ribs, kidneys, lungs. Fuck that you weren't hurt–"

"Travis, _I wasn't hurt._ "

The way Wes's arms were crooked at the elbows, reaching for Travis, and the way Travis's hands were thrumming with tension, pressed flat against his hips, spoke volumes of their emotional turmoil, but one look at the way Travis and Wes watched each other– staring deep into each other's eyes without hesitation, unafraid to see the best _and_ worst– gave everything away. The anticipation was elephantine, and as much as Emma wanted to just _nudge_ them a little in the right direction, she knew this was something they had to sort through themselves.

She watched as Travis ducked his head, Wes chasing after his gaze. "Wes, I swear, I didn't want to–"

"I know." Without touching, Wes seemed to pull Travis back up. His expression bore an aching honesty, and Travis let out a stuttering breath. The tension visibly eased off of his shoulders.

"…Okay."

Applause broke out (it was far from necessary, but undeniably warranted), and the detectives snapped out of their trance, sitting down and smiling bashfully. Emma was extremely proud, that her problem couple managed to work their way through the minefield and come out intact at the other end. This was turning out to be a pretty good day.

"Your turn, Wes."

Or maybe it was more of an "out of the frying pan and into the fire" kind of day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand, cue cliffhanger! /shot
> 
> Many thanks to all of the people who commented or gave kudos~ Keep them coming to guilt-trip me into writing more often! :P


	8. Who Do You Think You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A wild update appears!_
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter is the climax of this second Argument Arc. The first arc was the Case Arc. Following chapters will be the Wooing Arc. Oh yes.

“You’re serious.”

Wes’s deadpan was met with Travis’s likewise unyielding poker-player smile.

“You know it.”

“Fine,” Wes said flatly. “Regarding your proposition of a romantic relationship, my answer is a definitive _No_.”

“And Dr. Ryan, how do you propose we resolve this issue?” Travis transitioned smoothly, and Emma bit back a sigh, feeling– not for the first time– like a daycare center teacher. She could play it by the book– ask Wes why– but that was far too simple, and if Emma has learned anything from this unorthodox couple, it was that nothing was ever simple with them. So, instead:

“Travis, why do you think Wes is saying no?”

Travis looked dumbfounded, but Emma was far more interested in the way Wes stiffened in his seat, eyes on the floor, refusing to look up.

“What?”

“Travis–” Emma shifted so her body was entirely pointed at Travis, knowing the man worked at his finest under pressure. “You are asking for a romantic relationship from Wes, and he’s saying no. As far as I understand, very few people refuse your advances, so I was wondering if you maybe knew Wes’s reason for doing so.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I knew.” Travis tried for a nonchalant shrug, but an obvious unease radiated from the crouched-over, defensive stance he’s curled into. His trigger finger tapped against his knuckles in an erratic rhythm; it reminded Emma of the little tell of agitation and panic Wes had claimed Travis had, where he was antsy for a gun. Emma quickly switched gears and honed in on Wes.

“Wes, would you please define for us what you think a ‘romantic relationship’ is?”

“No.”

As direct a man as Wes was, he usually opted for a rhyme-and-reason route with his arguments– a memento from his lawyer days. A straight answer regarding his opinion and ability, without any justification or grounds, was out of character enough to put a hiccup in the mood Travis had worked himself into.

Emma let the silence drag on, let Travis’s stare pin down Wes even more, let the expression of horror Wes was trying so hard to hide surface just a little bit more, until finally, Dakota raised a tentative hand.

“May I…?”

“Please.” Emma gestured with an open palm. Dakota smiled generously at the boys.

“A romantic relationship– to me, at least–” Here she glanced briefly at Peter, who smiled reassuringly at her, “–means a partnership in which both parties agree to stay true to each other no matter what.”

“Being faithful to each other,” Clyde added. “In more sense than one.”

“Ooh,” Mr. Dumont chimed in. “A really expansive conditional love that almost seems unconditional. I read that in one of your novels.” He grinned at Mrs. Dumont, who rolled her eyes indulgently.

Emma smiled, immensely proud of not only the couples, but also every person sitting in their little circle, willing to lay out their hearts in hopes of getting something in return. It was a rather pure form of consumerism, she mused. Simple, but frequently effective. Even just a bit of a drop of a smear of trust could go a long way. Peering a bit shrewdly, a bit exasperatedly at Travis and Wes, Emma hoped the two could just see that. She believed– maybe a bit optimistically– that if one of them gave and eased the mess of tension between them just a little, they could get so much further than the tentative steps they have already taken. Travis– he was a man of reaction, quick to take action but always in response– he would not be the one to give first. It’ll have to be Wes. Stubborn, self-condemning Wes with streaks of arrogance and self-loathing each an easy mile long. They both have back-stories straight out of Jane Austen novels– Emma constantly found herself frustrated at their refusal to just _get on with it_ , because it was always so easy in the novels, a couple of chapters in an hour and you get your resolution. In a much more anticlimactic reality, however, all Emma really could do was wait, and wait and wait for someone, _anyone_ , to draw his hand out from behind his back, palms up, and spread apart his fingers.

“How about you, Travis?” Emma asked. “From your own experience, what do you think a romantic partnership is?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” Travis began wryly. “The longest relationship I’ve ever been in is–” The light bulb flickered on, and a look of realization dawned as he finished, “–with Wes.”

“That was totally leading the witness,” Wes muttered, glaring at Emma to avoid Travis’s glare. Emma just smiled sweetly back.

“I’m a therapist, Wes,” she replied smoothly, “not a lawyer.”

“Hold on,” Travis said angrily. “We were in what you call a ‘romantic relationship’ this entire time and you didn’t tell me?”

“ _No_.” Wes gave as good as he got and glared right back. “No, we’re not.”

“We trust each other, we don’t lie to each other–” Travis ticked off each point on his fingers. “–Oh yeah, and I spend so much time with you I can’t get a girl!”

“That’s not why you can’t get a girl,” Wes shot back.

“Yeah? And _you_ know so much about it?”

Wes was fuming when he spun around, tendons lining the backs of his hands as he clenched them into fists.

“Travis, some people actually want something _long-term_ , something _solid_ in their lives that they can rely on, that they can come home everyday and expect to _be there_.”

“And we’ve been at this for how long?” Travis didn’t look truly angry (not yet), just frustrated, a bit confused. “You’re saying that I’m not there when you need me to back you up? Every time you have some theory, I don’t help you look for proof? Every time we interrogate someone, I don’t take your lead?”

“That’s not the same thing–”

“You just said yourself that this is a romantic relationship–”

“ _I_ said it!” Wes exploded. “ _I_ did. _Everyone in this room_ said it. Travis– You. Didn’t. _Say it_.” Taking a breath to calm himself, Wes swiped a heavy hand down his face. “Travis, I know you. The trusting, the backing each other up– I know that’s not how you do relationships.”

Travis– Travis still looked confused, and Wes threw his hands up, trying to disguise the pleading glance he sent Dr. Ryan in exasperation and utterly failing. Travis also turned. Emma breathed. This was going to be a minefield.

“Perhaps what Wes is trying to say,” she said quietly, mainly addressing Wes, “is that the parameters around Travis’s definition of a relationship are not the same as the ones described by the group–”

“Yes, exactly–”

“–and that he fears in changing the label on your current relationship, Travis will treat you the same way he treated all of his ex-partners,” Emma finished smoothly. Wes looked startled, while Travis looked outright shocked.

“Well, I wouldn’t say _fear_ , exactly–”

“I wouldn’t just _throw_ you away,” Travis interrupted, his voice harsh and biting. “You know that.”

Wes paused and _looked_ at him.

“Do I?” he asked, tone worryingly even. “Have you ever given me reason to expect otherwise?”

"Do you really think," Travis asked carefully, voice painfully honest, "that I wouldn't give everything I have for you?"

There were only so many sensitive points between couples, even ones like Travis and Wes, and they seemed to be hitting on _every damn one_ today. Emma didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry. Probably both. In hysterics. Much later, when she has a soothing bubble bath on hand. The fact was that it was fantastic that the two were finally putting everything on the table and leaving them up for grabs. It was just that with all of this opening up, all the dust and broken bits are also tumbling out, and the entire room seemed stained with a tea-colored heartache of time and precious things lost.

Wes’s chest heaved, an upward motion that froze at the top, as if he was stuffed to the brim with anticipation and apprehension all at once. For a moment, his eyes were wide– perhaps in the juvenile hope Wes has so longed denied himself. Then, the moment passed, deflating in a pained breath of “Travis, I _can’t_.”

So far from his usual disparaging sarcasm, Emma realized that this was Wes at his most vulnerable; the man’s softness, something he’s kept cushioned with bitterness and derision, was suddenly exposed. That softness drew down his shoulders and shaded the hollows in his eyes, turning his words from _I can’t do it_ to _I can’t lose you_ , which of course meant that _I will, though, if you ask me to_. Wes was suddenly something malleable, rather than the patronizing adult figure everybody got a good laugh out of, and Emma could feel the group responding. Peter’s brows were drawn, palms open feelingly, and Rozelle stared intently at Travis, a frown on her lips like a mother willing away her child’s bad deeds before he’s done them. Even Emma wanted to pick sides, knowing this was what it came down to– Travis’s reaction, because that was probably the only reason Wes would act. Sutton had told her that Wes would get lost in his head without Travis, but whatever Travis chose to say now– all of the possible wrong responses– can send Wes straight back in, perhaps for good. It was hideously unhealthy, Emma thought, that it should come down to this, for both Travis and Wes, but they had to work with what they’ve got, and Emma prayed– _prayed_ that Travis would work it well.

Travis didn’t look blank or indecisive– his gaze was too sharp. Emma couldn’t seem to puzzle out his intent. Neither could Wes, it seemed, looking back, disoriented. Emma’s eyes caught motion– a miniscule nod from Travis as his lips parted to speak, to say:

“Okay.”

A smile of relief broke across the deep grooves in Peter’s brow, and Rozelle patted Clyde’s knee proudly. Wes was practically sagging into his seat when he visibly gathered himself, straightening out a crease in his suit jacket with an embarrassed frown.

“ _But_ –” Wes’s spine snapped taut again, with a disbelieving, almost offended wild-eyed look at Travis. “Wes, _you know me_. This isn’t me giving up.”

“You–”

“Wes, just let me try. _Please_.”

And just like that, Wes was putty again, mouth gaping as he tried to find a response, finally choking out a perturbed:

“Okay _._ ”

A smile broke across Emma’s face. Travis looked triumphant, Wes indignant, and Dr. Ryan was glowing.

“I am so, _so_ proud of you guys.”

Now all there was left to do was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally feel like I've settled into school enough to come back to writing this. I will try my darnest to update, especially after this, I can move on to more sappy sap plot. Expect fluff, 'cause I'm a sucker for love.
> 
> I'm also getting a kitten (her name is Jean Jacket and Buttons), so I'll probably just channel all of my goopy saccharine loveliness into fic.
> 
> Reviews/Comments are beautiful, even to just tell me to hurry my butt up with updates or to goop with me about Jean Jacket and Buttons~!


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